Time to say goodbye
by hobgoblin123
Summary: Sequel to 'The Hunt is on', set about forty years after Black Ridge Pass. Slash Tarrant/Vryce. Warning: major character death
1. Chapter 1

**Time to say goodbye**

Disclaimer: I neither own the Coldfire Trilogy nor the works of J.R.R. Tolkien.

Warning: mentioning of sexual activities but nothing explicit; major character death

A/N 1: The song or poem (please, oh please let it count as a poem, because if I have to delete the lines once again I'm going to throw a screaming tantrum, lol) was 'borrowed' from the 'Lord of the Rings', sung by Bilbo in Rivendell when Frodo is taking leave. In my edition it can be found on the pages 271/2 (Harper Collins, paperback edition 1995). When you're getting older you slowly but surely have to come to terms with your own mortality, and the melancholy and bittersweet tone of the poem have always appealed to me.

A/N 2: Well, this is going to be a bit depressing, and if you already don't feel well or have recently lost a loved one you might not want to read on. As I've already mentioned the story's a sequel to 'The Hunt is on', and although it focusses on Damien's last hours I wanted to highlight their life together as it could have been. Sorry that there's no direct speech/dialogue. I hope I won't bore the shit out of you, but Damien's all alone, so I didn't really have a choice, did I (other than bringing Karril or maybe Ciani in, and that wasn't my intention...)?

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I sit beside the fire and think  
of all that I have seen,  
of meadow-flowers and butterflies  
in summers that have been.

Of yellow leaves and gossamer  
in autumns that there were,  
with morning mist and silver sun  
and wind upon my hair.

With a heartfelt sigh Damien closed the drawer of his fall front desk and stared at the flames burning merrily in the fireplace, his thoughts miles away. Their spacious living room stacked with the books Gerald hadn't managed to cram into his overflowing study anymore faded into non-existence as he was remembering the wondrous places he had seen in days long gone by when his old bones hadn't creaked in protest at his every movement and he'd been able to ride fifty miles a day and battle a hoard of demons subsequently without tiring. Nigh to forty years had passed since he had encountered the man who had been the Hunter on Black Ridge Pass again, and all in all it had been good years despite Gerald's peculiar character traits.

After they had overcome their initial disorientation they had both made their way in the new world which didn't allow access to the fae any longer. Hawthorne, or more correctly Hawthorne-Vryce, had brought his varied talents to bear in many respects, writing books about as diverse topics as horse breeding, demon kinds and the history of the human colonization on Erna and holding patents to various items from a telescope to improvements on surgical instruments. His writings had brought fame and fortune along the way, not to mention a post in the city council and an honorary membership in the Order of the Golden Flame for his numerous charitable activities.

Vryce would never forget the expression on his husband's fair face when he had been solemnly clad in the ceremonial robes of a Knight of the Flame and presented with the gorgeous sword with the flame patterned hilt in Jaggonath Cathedral. One had to know him very well to register the emotion warring with a fair amount of ironic amusement lurking just below the serene façade, but the sword had gotten a place of honour above the mantelpiece along with his own, and the adept had wrapped the garments and the collar carefully into layers of parchment paper before he had stored them away. The former priest's outstanding healing skills on the other had obtained him the position as the chief physician of the most renowned hospital in Jaggonath in record time, and even after his official retirement ten years ago he still lectured at the medical department of Jaggonath University every now and then.

Four years ago he had brought Gerald along as a guest lecturer on the intricacies of adeptitude and the effects of the loss of the fae on modern medicine. At first the students had gaped at the man leaning utterly at ease against the lectern in open wonder, marvelling at the revelation that the famous citizen in their midst belonged to the elitist circle of nigh to legendary human beings for whom Working had been as natural as breathing, but the warrior knight hadn't failed to register that beholding his husband some of the young ladies and even one or two of their male fellow students had been mentally occupied with musings utterly unconnected to spontaneous gene mutations and an additional visual system. Smiling self-deprecatingly Vryce remembered that he had verily committed the transgression of pride that day, feeling very much like a youngster who had landed the most desirable girl in town.

Sensing the air of unveiled anticipation Damien hadn't been too surprised when the subject-specific questions had strayed into more daring territory after a while, and he had had to stifle a fit of laughter when a courageous student had boldly inquired about the impact of adeptitude on human sexuality in general and the possibility to enhance one's sex life in particular.

"You'd think that the wish was father to the thought", Gerald had replied sweetly without missing a beat, and the unfazed retort had caused gales of laughter and a fair amount of mock-comfort backslapping at the expense of the unfortunate young man who'd buried his flushed cheeks in his hands with an embarrassed moan. One could have heard a pin drop though when Hawthorne-Vryce had spoken up again, calmly talking about the possibilities of birth control, postponing one's climax and certain techniques for enhancing one's sexual partner's pleasure by means of the fae, and thunderous applause had set in after he had finished his deliberations.

The adept's appearance had been a huge success bringing forth an entirely unforeseen result. At first the former priest hadn't thought anything of it when Lachlan Kenrick, the handsome young man who'd given Gerald the the cue for his speech on adept sexuality, had approached him at the end of the lecture and had been casually graced with a business card. A celebrity like his husband had many admirers and widespread connections to Jaggonath's high society, and over the years Damien had lost count of the tedious receptions and dinner parties they had been forced to attend in the undesirable company of pompous notables with egos the size of Mount Shaitan. Very likely with regard to the scholarship for the extraordinarily gifted Gerald had endowed more than twenty years ago a bright, ambitious but rather poor youth like Kenrick had just been looking for a mentor, but oddly enough the adept had never ever hunted him again afterwards. Admittedly the horrible urge to gain pleasure from inflicting pain on hapless victims had already been declining steadily over time until it had levelled out at about once a year, but the eerie coincidence had given him some food for thought nonetheless. If it truly _was _a coincidence, that is.

Strangely Damien didn't want to know. Although making love to his husband was still bliss beyond words after all those decades he had had to take it slower for the last years, and his ageing body had needed more and more time to recuperate after a hunt despite the former Hunter going deliberately easy on him. If his beloved had indeed found a willing partner to act out his sadistic fantasies he didn't blame him for it. On the contrary knowing that all of Gerald's needs were taken care of he would be able to die in peace without worrying that the adept would do something very, very stupid after he had breathed his last.

I sit beside the fire and think  
of how the world will be  
when winter comes without a spring  
that I shall ever see.

For still there are so many things  
that I have never seen  
in every wood, in every spring  
there is a different green.

Memorizing the ancient poem from their mother planet Earth Vryce had to stifle a sob threatening to force itself through his constricted throat. He had seen many a season in Gerald's company, had wandered through green pastures, cornfields and autumnal broadleaf forests hand in hand with his beloved who had effortlessly outshone the heartrending beauty of nature, but now as the firsts frosts of winter had frozen the last rose blooms on their wilting stems he had to face the fact that he wouldn't live to see the trees budding again. Although the terrible deaths of his companions and the barbaric slaughter of innocents he had had to witness while trying to save the world from Calesta's manipulations had taught him a thing or two about the frailty of the human existence living a full life the warrior knight hadn't wasted too many thoughts on his own passing, but with the grim reaper already grinding his scythe his heart was heavy with concern for the man he had set his heart on.

In spite of Gerald being approximately nine hundred years his senior the slender body setting his nerves on fire on Black Ridge Pass had been that of a youth at roundabout twenty, and Damien had never doubted for a second that his husband would survive him by many years if he didn't manage to get himself killed in his hunger for knowledge somewhat prematurely. If one put two and two together Gerald had to push his sixtieth birthday by now although a thousand came more close to the matter, but the Working Tarrant had performed during the final transformation killing his old identity evidently had slowed down the natural ageing process, and in fact he didn't look a day older than a guy in his early forties at most. Of course there were some fine line around his eyes and his once onyx hair was heavily shot with silver, a dazzling effect that had tempted Damien to teasingly rave about the attraction of greying temples on several occasions. His good-natured kidding had earned him a withering glower which could have frozen the caldera of an active volcano, but all in all Gerald had held up incredibly well considering his age, and below the thin patina of time Damien was still capable of spotting the pretty _'spoiled brat'_ who had turned his life upside-down once again with a few ambiguous sentences so many years ago.

Whatever Tarrant had done to his genes not only had granted him access to the mythical fountain of youth but had also gifted him with an iron constitution, and whether an especially nasty stomach bug was filling the medical practices to the brim or all and sundry was down with influenza the adept remained fit as a fiddle. Even minor ailments like a common cold or a bloody toothache seemingly evaded him like the plague, a feat which unfortunately hadn't rubbed off on Vryce himself so far in spite of the old saying that long-term spouses were destined to become more and more alike over time. Coughing and sneezing like a man suffering from a very bad attack of hay fever he had had cause to regret that lamentable fact on more than one occasion, but to his astonishment the lordly, fastidious former Neocount who usually considered everything going beyond making a cup of coffee beneath his dignity hadn't shied away from plying him with self-concocted herb infusions, applying cold compresses and changing the soaked sheets with his own hands. Apparently the old saying that every cloud had a silver lining indeed contained a grain of truth, a thought which brought a faint smile to the warrior knight's lips despite his sorrow.

Actually Damien would have counted his blessings if he had been suffering from nothing worse than a bad bout of flu, but the nagging nausea and stomach ache plaguing him for months had gotten rapidly worse over the last weeks, and although he had been fairly sure concerning the diagnosis he had decided to get a second opinion as soon as Gerald had set forth on the last lecture tour of the waning year. Early on in their marriage the adept had taught him certain techniques to shield his mind from uncalled-for leakage from their special link and had avowed not to prowl around in his brain without his consent, but notwithstanding Vryce had deemed it wiser to postpone his plans until his husband wasn't around for a few days.

So instead of accompanying Gerald on his journey as he had been wont to after his retirement unless he had an urgent appointment himself he had declined politely for the first time in years with a feeble joke about old bones and their need of a comfortable bed. Faced with the unveiled concern in those fathomless, dark eyes Damien had braced himself for a thorough grilling, but to his amazement Hawthorne-Vryce had taken his refusal in his stride and hadn't broached the subject again, something so out of the ordinary for his persistent, headstrong mate that he couldn't help but having a queasy feeling about it.

Whatever could be said about his jarring antics and quirks the adept's altered body still harboured the very same brilliant brain Gerald Tarrant had prided himself on beyond all measure, but even a less intelligent man couldn't have missed his rapid decline. He had lost at least thirty pounds in a few months, and his clothes were hanging on his emaciated body like rags on a scarecrow. Laboriously Damien struggled to his feet and made for their bedroom in order to dare a much loathed look in the mirror. The valiant, bulky warrior knight still residing someplace deep down in his soul was gone, had been slowly but surely drowned in an insurmountable ocean of time just to be replaced by a stooped, white-haired stranger staring back at him from deeply hollowed eyes.

Vryce shuddered involuntarily and pulled his padded jacket tighter around his haggard frame. He had had a long life on a planet where conventional medicine was still in its infancy, a good life despite his early trials and tribulations and the agonizing pangs of conscience when he had had to chose between the purity of his faith and his alliance with the Lord of the Forest, but now he was tired, and he would have resigned himself to his fate and met death calmly if he didn't have to leave his beloved behind. Going where Gerald couldn't follow him yet was simply unthinkable, and the mere thought of it caused a pain so intense that the crushing ache in his epigastrium paled in comparison.

The former Prophet of the Law was the love of his life, but there was no denying that their married life hadn't always been a bed of roses. The calamitous mixture of the adept's acerbic tongue and his own flaring temper had sometimes amounted to a devil's cocktail resulting in slamming doors and the occasional cup or saucer smashed to pieces, and at the end of his tether he had passed more than one lonely, miserable night in Ciani's guestroom. Their reconciliations had always been worth the trouble though, and gazing at their very private hotbed of sin with its impeccable silken coverlets Vryce sighed wistfully.

Even after all those years Hawthorne-Vryce had neither forgone his fierce pride and aloof arrogance shielding a vulnerable soul from the world nor his obsession with control, and a display of emotions was usually reserved for a very small circle of trusted friends like Karril and the loremaster. In the safe haven of their home on the other hand he didn't mind at all to indulge an altogether different aspect of his multifarious personality. When Gerald really got going there was no holding back any longer, and giving a damn for his countenance he exhibited an inventive and rather naughty streak leading the dispassionate facade ad absurdum.

Before Kenrick had entered the scene the ritual hunt had inevitably ended with Gerald _'raping'_ him in a display of dominance over his helpless quarry, but with his sadistic appetites assuaged for a while very much to his surprise Damien had found out that the adept had a pronounced preference for acting the receptive partner. Notwithstanding in no way the submissive type he was very insistent on getting _what_ he needed _when_ he needed it, and the warrior knight was deeply grateful that experience and the age-related changes of his sexual responsiveness had taught him to avoid shooting his bolt prematurely. In the wake of his return to the ranks of the living his husband had mellowed considerably, but even on a good day he was still quite a handful, and one was well-advised to keep him satisfied and happy.

A sharp pang in his midriff brought the warrior knight back to the here and now, and moaning in pain he slumped down on the bed. The consultation with his former colleagues at the Neocount of Merentha yesterday morning had just confirmed his suspicion that he was suffering from stomach cancer in an advanced stage. Without the possibility of a true Healing there wasn't much one could do, and he'd been warned that the effect of the strong analgesic the healers had prescribed would wear off much too soon and he would very likely end up experiencing intolerable pain before death finally came as a relief.

Shell-shocked despite his presentiments Vryce had returned to the exquisite mansion representing their home for the last decades as if in a trance. Inside his burning eyes had fixed on the thousands of books warring for space with the adept's priceless collection of archeological finds and artifacts from the landing, and he had made his choice without thinking twice. His husband had already suffered enough, had been condemned and lost everything he'd held dear more than once in the nigh to thousand years of his existence, and he wouldn't burden him with his death throes. If he truly had to bite the dust so be it. He couldn't still death's cold, bony hand, but he would sure as hell spare Gerald tending to a screaming wreck begging for the next dose of painkillers.

Although the adept wasn't in the least inclined to glowing declarations of love Vryce was sure that he would grieve deeply about his passing, but being a pragmatist to the core after a while he would hopefully pick up the pieces again. Gerald had so much to live for still. With his last book about the history of the Church of Unification finished and sent to his publisher a week ago Damien didn't so much as harbour a sliver of a doubt that it would be another bestseller. The intriguing combination of a lucid mind and his husband's dry humour never failed to draw the attention of a circle of readers who would have usually preferred to bury their noses in trashy novels instead of reading a serious non-fiction book, and the picture of the author's striking visage on the inside of the cover most certainly wasn't detrimental to the sales figures either.

Wearily the warrior knight got up and fetched the analgesic from the bathroom, putting out the fire in passing. Well aware that his muscles would relax at the moment of death he hadn't clothed himself in the ceremonial robes of a Knight of the Flame he wanted to be laid to rest in along with his sword but in the black trousers, emerald green silk shirt and matching, heavily embroidered velvet jacket the adept had given him for his last birthday. Now, with his will and the letters for Gerald, Ciani, Karril and Lachlan Kenrick sealed and stored away in his fall front desk it was time to kneel down and say a last heartfelt prayer of thanksgiving for all those years the Lord had granted him at his husband's side. The name of his God had indeed been mercy, and hopefully He would forgive him his manifold sins and hold His protective hand over Gerald Hawthorne-Vryce when he had passed away.

I sit beside the fire and think  
of people long ago,  
and people who will see a world  
that I shall never know.

But all the while I sit and think  
of times there were before  
I listen for returning feet  
and voices at the door.

After he had finished his prayers Damien sat down on their bed again and picked up the small flask containing enough and to spare of the greenish liquid to send five grown-up men across the legendary river separating the world of the living from the dark realms of the dead if applied in an overdose. Tearing up he hesitated, wishing with all his heart that he could see his husband once again before his eyes closed forever.

All at once the warrior knight's thoughts wandered back to the night decades ago when he had set eyes on Gerald's angelic visage in that dae in Briand for the first time. As if it had been yesterday he remembered each and every detail, remembered how the unearthly silver eyes had flashed like precious diamonds in the lamplight and how gracefully the Hunter had entered the guestroom in his silken robes of an age long gone by, utterly unfazed by the prospect of spending his time in the company of mortals who would have relished tearing him apart limb by limb if they had been aware who had dared to mix with the crowd. Although Tarrant had made his grand entrance in human guise Vryce's tried and tested warrior instincts had instantly rung the alarm bells, the flames of his initial resentment fanned by Ciani's vivid interest in the beautiful stranger with his alabaster skin and cheekbones to die for, but maybe even on that first encounter the foundations had been laid for something altogether different than distrust and plain male jealousy.

Who would have thought then that their fates had been inextricably linked ever since? Battling demons and power-crazy humans alike the former priest had been forced to sacrifice the integrity of his soul on the altar of the common good until his burning desire to redeem his friend against all odds had outweighed his primary motives. Now there was but one last thing he could offer for the sake of the one human being he loved more than life itself. Trembling in every limb Damien steeled himself to the inevitable, uncorked the flask and brought it to his white lips.

Having downed about half of its contents the sickening sweetness of the potion made the bile rise in his throat, and clamping a hand over his mouth he jumped to his feet and rushed to the bathroom, reaching it just in time when the last barriers of his self-control crumbled into dust and he had to give in to an irresistible bout of nausea.

After a while his stomach stopped turning somersaults, and his forehead beaded with sweat the warrior knight straightened and rinsed his mouth. Although he had retched miserably for what had seemed like hours he in fact had managed to keep down the better part of his one-way-ticket to eternity, and hopefully it would fulfill its terrible purpose. There was still enough of the potent drug left for a second try, but Vryce wasn't altogether sure whether he would be able dredge up the resolve all over again.

Wiping his watery eyes he staggered back to the bedroom and reclined on the bed, banishing his fear of the unknown and the memories of the horrors he had had to witness to the deepest pits of his mind and focussing on the day of their marriage instead, dead set on letting those most treasured memories of his entire life accompany him on his last lonely journey.

With the Church still frowning upon same-sex unions they had had to settle for a civil wedding, but in fact Damien couldn't have cared less. The raven black mane of hair held back by a golden circlet and his blood red silken robes sweeping the ground at his feet Gerald had been so breathtakingly beautiful that he had barely been able to believe his luck and had resisted the overwhelming urge to pinch himself just by a small margin. The adept had plighted his troth without faltering once, his tone calm and composed as usual, but the rosy glow on his cheeks and the slender hand trembling in Vryce's calloused, so much larger one had belied his flaunted nonchalance and had told Damien everything he had to know. 'To have and to hold...'. Memorizing how he himself had stumbled over those ancient words from their mother planet Earth, his voice thick with emotion, the former priest smiled through his tears. In all those years he had never tired of holding Gerald in his arms, and hopefully the One God in His infinite wisdom would grant them a reunion in whatever afterlife waiting for them.

By now the horrible stomach pain which had made his his life a misery for the last weeks was rapidly fading to no more than a bad memory, and with the drug taking effect the warrior knight started to feel increasingly disorientated and drowsy. His shallow breaths coming farther and farther apart and his lips and fingernails acquiring a ghastly blue hue due to lack of oxygen Damien's capacity for rational thinking was rapidly drowning in a strange sensation of blissful euphoria, and feeling as if he were floating weightlessly through unknown spaces filled with wonders beyond human reckoning he smiled. In his last conscious moments his wide-open hazel eyes didn't perceive the bedroom any longer, but the hearing sense was the last to go, and before the darkness finally claimed him he thought he heard an utterly familiar voice calling his name. Then everything went black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Business**

Sorry that I'm bound to disappoint all of you who expected another chapter, but this has been weighing heavily on my mind for quite a while now, and I think now I finally should speak up on my own behalf and on the behalf of all the other authors who, like me, put a lot of time and effort in their works.

Honestly I don't know what's wrong with the Coldfire fandom. Admittedly it's a small one, but evidently there ARE some readers around, a fact that's proven every now and then when I get another chiding review. Unfortunately I'm rarely graced with positive ones at all with the exception of fellow author Silvereyedbitch and one of Herdcat (thanks a lot), and it's starting to get at me. Seriously. What's the point in doing something which gets next to no positive feedback at all but just serves to raise other people's hackles? It doesn't make sense at all, does it?

First of all I'd like to refer to the accusation that I _'stole'_ the idea of Damien becoming Head Physician from Shadowy Star. Dear fellow author, I deeply admire your work, and if I offended you I apologize. Deeply. Notwithstanding I think that this insinuation is bordering on the ridiculous. I mean, come on, Damien always treasured his healing skills. It's in his nature to care for others, and the thought of him staying in the healing business after the loss of the fae and rising up to a high position isn't that far fetched as far as I'm concerned. The idea just suggests itself, and if my powers of imagination were that underdeveloped that I had to steal it from another author maybe I should quit writing altogether. I didn't even remember that Shadowy Star had the same idea before, by the way. Fortunately there are over two hundred Coldfire fanfics floating around the web by now, and although I'm not daft I can't memorize everything (longs for Gerald's brilliant brains...).

That said I'm a bit bewildered concerning the second part of the review. _'__You overdo the flashbacks. They're very nice and give a great insight in what's to happen in the end but the whole thing just doesn't flow well.' _Excuse me? Dear Dragoness Anna, I somehow accept that it's meant to be constructive criticism, but it's not exactly what I would call helpful or even logical. Sorry for being so outspoken, but for me it just doesn't make sense. Of course there are several flashbacks; after all I wanted to highlight a time span of about twenty years. Maybe the 'flow' could indeed have been more proficiently executed, but everybody should keep in mind that when I landed in the Coldfire fandom I had never written anything fictional before (okay, except the miserable heartache poems one tends to produce at the age of fourteen, lol). I'm really trying to do my best, but apparently it's never enough. Sigh!

What really annoyed me was the reviewer not long ago who pointed out that she _'even'_ liked some of my stories but didn't bother to review one single time before she felt obliged to criticize me. Not to mention that I found the use of the word 'even' very condescending I think that kind of behaviour is quite strange. Why not making an author happy with a few kind words but finding the time for however well-deserved criticism? I just don't get it.

Well, having said that I have to admit that for the time being I've had had it. Over the last months I had to digest that I bore the shit out of everybody with my author's notes, my grammar sucks, I'm a thief, all the good writers have sadly disappeared from the Coldfire fandom (a true effrontery with regard to those fellow-authors still trying to keep the fandom going) and so on and so forth. It's not very encouraging, mildly put, and meanwhile dreading to read my reviews I'm seriously considering giving up for good once again. Somehow it's a pity because I enjoy writing very much and I still harbour the hope that there's one or the other reader out there who likes reading about Damien and Gerald however measly my writing skills are. I truly don't know yet.

A fellow author once warned me not to post something while still foaming at the mouth, but I just had to get this off my chest. It's not going to make me popular here, I know that very well, but sometimes you just have to '_face it all, stand tall and do it your way'_ (stolen from the famous song 'My Way'). Ah well, got me here, Frankie Boy. _'Doing it my way'_ would mean going on however adverse the circumstances, wouldn't it?

Whoever had the patience to read my ramblings: I hope you forgive me being frank, but some things just have to be said. Yours sincerely,

Hobgoblin


End file.
